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The only reason I remembered this play was because it had a mad person in it, and everything I had ever read about mad people stuck in my mind, while everything else flew out.

Sylvia Plath

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Sylvia Plath
Age: 30 †
Born: 1932
Born: October 27
Died: 1963
Died: February 11
Autobiographer
Diarist
Essayist
Novelist
Poet
Writer
Boston
Massachusetts
Victoria Lucas
Sylvia Plath Hughes
Play
Stuck
Mind
Read
People
Else
Persons
Person
Reason
Flew
Ever
Mad
Everything
Remembered

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She stared at her reflection in the glossed shop windows as if to make sure, moment by moment, that she continued to exist.
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I think if I had done anything else I would like to have been a doctor. This is the sort of polar opposition to being a writer, I suppose.
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Some pale, hueless flicker of sensitivity is in me. God, must I lose it in cooking scrambled eggs for a man.
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They would grow old. They would forget me.
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Well, I know now. I know a little more how much a simple thing like a snowfall can mean to a person
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A skeptic, I would ask for consistency first of all.
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I felt wise and cynical as all hell.
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We know a thing by its opposite corollary hot by having experienced cold good by having decided what is bad love by hate.
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I am accused. I dream of massacres. I am a garden of black and red agonies. I drink them, Hating myself, hating and fearing. And now the world conceives Its end and runs toward it, arms held out in love.
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I like you, but not too much. I don’t want to like anybody too much.
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I feel that very strongly: having been an academic, having been tempted by the invitation to stay on to become a Ph.D., a professor, and all that, one side of me certainly does respect all disciplines, as long as they don't ossify.
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I know the bottom, she says. I know it with my great tap root: It is what you fear. I do not fear it: I have been there.
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…I hate myself for not being able to go downstairs naturally and seek comfort in numbers. I hate myself for having to sit here and be torn between I know not what within me.
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I have to live my life, and it is the only one I’ll ever have.
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Piece by piece, I fed my wardrobe to the night wind, and flutteringly, like a loved one’s ashes, the gray scraps were ferried off, to settle here, there, exactly where I would never know, in the dark heart of New York.
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And you grit your teeth, despising yourself for your tremulous sensitivity, and wondering how human beings can suffer their individualities to be mercilessly crushed under a machinelike dictatorship, be it of industry, state or organization, all their lives long.
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I wanted to be where nobody I knew could ever come.
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That’s one of the reasons I never wanted to get married. The last thing I wanted was infinite security and to be the place an arrow shoots off from. I wanted change and excitement and to shoot off in all directions myself, like the colored arrows from a Fourth of July rocket.
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Slowly, slowly, catch the monkey.
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For the few little successes I may seem to have, there are acres of misgivings and self-doubt.
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